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At a little café
on a side street
of the Pittsburgh Strip

sidewalk tables, wrought iron chairs
sprayed white with curlicues to match,
the houses, old but proud,
wore wrought iron railing
on balconies that sported
red geraniums in terracotta pots,

you bought me daisies.

We sipped lattes
and pretended it was Paris
in April.  The rainbow slicked puddle
 was the Seine
— until a taxi splashed by
and stained my dress with runoff
from Alcoa. Reality
had no respect for dreams.

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